Up in the Air
by Aurora Ilvento
Summary: Riggs, Murtaugh and a helicopter. What could go wrong?


It's an extremely shitty day. Murtaugh is puffing, his shirt slicked with sweat, as he runs after his partner who in turn is running after a criminal. It's their second chase this day because the guy is just too damn smart and managed to lose them in a crowd the first time. By pure chance they have found him again in Brentwood, but now he's leading them on a merry chase around the neighborhood, weaving in and out of buildings and gardens. He seems to know the area like the back of his hand and leads them right back where the whole chase started, with one difference. The Crown Vic is gone.

"He stole my goddamn car!" Murtaugh yells. Most criminals aren't arrogant enough to steal a cop car, but Rico The Snake definitely is. He has been taunting them the whole time. Murtaugh can just imagine him having a big old laugh right now about those stupid cops he fooled. _Again_. And now he's driving his goddamn car.  
"That's it." Fuming, Murtaugh pulls out his phone. "I'm calling for backup." When the expected protest isn't coming he notices his partner has wandered off.  
"Riggs, where the _fuck_ did you go?"  
"Over here."  
Murtaugh jogs around the corner to see his partner standing next to a chopper, probably belonging to one of the local bigwigs. A huge grin is plastered across his face, like it always is when he's up to something that's not going to end well for them.  
Murtaugh shakes his head vehemently. "Nuh-uh. No way."  
"C'mon, this is gonna be awesome!"  
"That's still a no."  
"You wanna catch this guy or not?"  
Murtaugh hesitates, torn. On the one hand he really doesn't want to get into a helicopter with Riggs, and definitely not one piloted _by_ his crazy partner. On the other hand, he really wants to arrest this Rico and see the smugness drain off his face.  
And there's the fact that Riggs is actually waiting for his consent instead of just charging ahead, a behavior that he should definitely reward.  
"Okay, yeah."  
"Really?"  
Murtaugh nods, smiling. The joy on his partner's face is almost worth the imminent death and destruction. The younger man is all but bouncing, excited like a little kid at the thought of flying the helicopter. Riggs climbs in and calls for the other man to get onboard.  
Against his better judgment, Murtaugh does just that. His partner is already sitting in the pilot's seat, rubbing his hands in anticipation as he studies the dashboard. Murtaugh too looks at the many, many switches, gauges and buttons, suddenly beset by doubt.  
"You sure you know how to fly this thing?"  
"Of course. It's just been a while."  
"And how long is a while?"  
"Oh, a couple of years."  
At Murtaugh's fearful look, he reassures him. "Don't worry. It's just like riding a bicycle."  
Right. Except that when you fall, it's not a few feet, but a few hundred yards. And you'll almost certainly die.  
Having oriented himself, Riggs flips a few switches, presses a button and the blades power up with a chopping sound. As the skids leave the ground Murtaugh wonders what has he gotten himself into.

Sitting in a helicopter flown by a man known for his impulsive decision-making isn't Murtaugh's idea of a good time. While he trusts him not to crash the thing, he doesn't trust him not to fly some risky maneuver just for the fun of it, especially since he's so thrilled to be up in the air again. But for once Riggs is completely professional, keeping the ride smooth and devoid of barrel rolls. Murtaugh is just starting to relax and enjoy the view of his city from above when his partner says, totally nonchalant, "Hold the stick for me, will ya?"  
"What? No!" Murtaugh yells, his adrenaline spiking again.  
"Just for a second. The target's down there." Riggs is slipping into the military jargon, but Murtaugh has got other problems than to correct him.  
"No! I don't know how to make this clearer."  
"I've activated the autopilot. All you have to do is hold her steady." The younger man tries a cajoling smile "Trust me, you've got this." He makes to climb over the seat into the back of the helicopter and Murtaugh panics.  
"Riggs, wait!"  
"What?"  
"Why don't I take the shot?"  
Riggs hooks his thumb at the Crown Vic on the road far below them. "If you think you can hit the gas tank from up here, be my guest."  
Murtaugh takes in the distance and knows he doesn't stand a chance. He grumbles but complies, grabbing hold of the stick. "Fine. Just don't fall out." Remembering what his partner said about targets, he adds, "And don't kill him!"  
The other man laughs in response. "I won't." Which of those two things he won't do is unclear. Murtaugh'll have to wait and see – that is, if he can keep them aloft for long enough.

As Riggs opens the sliding door, wind starts whistling in, then the first shots ring out. Murtaugh blends it all out and concentrates on keeping the chopper steady. It responds to his every move, which takes some getting used to, but after some time he gets the hang of it. It's surprisingly easy to stay on target. It helps that the car is currently on a long straight stretch of road, a fact that Riggs might have taken into account – if Murtaugh wants to give him credit for thinking this through. But the important thing is, it works. A kind of euphoria sets in.  
 _I'm flying a helicopter! Can't wait to tell Trish and the kids!_

The criminal returns fire. Most bullets ping harmlessly off the hull, but one must have hit something vital. All of a sudden lights flash and an alarm starts beeping.  
"Riggs!" Murtaugh yells, his voice a panicked squeak.  
The man is still trading fire with the perp below and hasn't noticed a thing. At his partner's scream he pops his head back in.  
"What is it?"  
Unable to articulate his fears, Murtaugh just whimpers and points at the instruments. Riggs fires off a few more rounds, then leans into the cockpit and studies the flashing lights with interest.  
"Ah. I see." He doesn't look concerned, which would be reassuring if it was anyone else.  
"I just need a few more seconds. Try to steer upwards, if you can."  
"What?" Murtaugh bursts out, but Riggs has already gone back to shooting at the car.  
They're starting to lose height.

His palms sweaty, Murtaugh grips the stick with both hands and tries to direct the suddenly cumbersome machine upwards. He's not sure it works, but that doesn't stop him from trying harder. After a few seconds that feel like hours Riggs leans into the cockpit again. "Can you steer a little to the left, maybe 20 degrees? I ain't got the right angle."  
Murtaugh's eyes pop at the outrageous request. "No, I can't steer a little to the left. I've never flown a helicopter before! And in case you didn't notice, we're sinking!"  
Still infuriatingly calm, Riggs says, "We're not sinking, it's not a ship."  
 _"Do you think I care about semantics right now?"_  
"Never mind. Just a sec, okay?" And he's gone.  
Murtaugh turns his head to call after him that he better hurry, but the back of the chopper is empty. For a moment he fears that his partner has fallen out, that any second he's going to see his broken body on the road below. But knowing Riggs, he's probably – hopefully – just hanging off the side of the helicopter, trying to get a better angle on the bad guy.

And still they're dropping lower, despite Murtaugh's best efforts. Just as he is thinking about what the writing on his headstone would say – 'Roger Mayfield Murtaugh. Died because he was stupid enough to get in a helicopter with a madman.' – a cowboy boot swings past his ear, closely followed by another and then by the rest of the cowboy as Riggs climbs back into the pilot's seat. He's looking rather pleased with himself and proudly pronounces, "All done."  
He reaches for the stick that his partner is still holding in a vice-like grip, his biceps straining like he's trying to choke it. Murtaugh seems frozen with fear.  
Riggs nudges him. "You can let go now."  
"Okay." But he's unable to unclench his fingers.  
"C'mon, just open your hands. You can do this."  
Murtaugh loosens his grip a little. A quick look out the window shows the ground already worryingly close and he almost clamps on again. Finally, thanks to the gentle coaxing of his partner, he manages to let go.  
"There you go." After an encouraging pat on Murtaugh's shoulder Riggs takes over the stick and rights their course. He presses a few buttons and the alarm and flashing lights die off.  
"A bullet must have hit the autopilot unit. I've switched back to manual control," he explains.  
"Uh-huh." Murtaugh leans back in his seat. As if he cares about the details right now.  
They have overshot their target, so Riggs turns the chopper in a circle and sets it down neatly next to the overturned car  
By the time the younger man has turned off the rotors, Murtaugh is still occupied with simply breathing, immensely glad to be on the ground again.  
Riggs starts to get out, then looks at his partner and reaches out to squeeze his arm.  
"You okay?" he asks with amusement, but also a spark of genuine concern. The awful memory of the time his partner's pacemaker was acting up still hangs over them.  
Murtaugh just nods, still panting.  
"You did good up there," Riggs, unusually sensitive, assures him.  
"I did?" It sounds needy, even to his own ears, but Murtaugh wants to be praised right now.  
Riggs smiles. "Sure." With one last squeeze, he exits the helicopter.  
While his partner, who looks more invigorated than stressed, goes to arrest the guy crawling out of the wrecked car, Murtaugh climbs or rather falls out the door. He leans against the side of the chopper to give his shaking legs a chance to stabilize until a call from Riggs spurs him into moving.  
"Rog, you want to cuff him or can I knock him out?"

About two hours later Murtaugh is sitting in one of his superior's ridiculously uncomfortable chairs, waiting for Avery to finish his phone call. Riggs has an appointment with his shrink, which leaves Murtaugh alone for the debriefing. As they rode the elevator together the younger man was still in an extraordinarily good mood, even whistling a jaunty tune as he got off the elevator and sauntered toward Cahill's office. It has rubbed off on Murtaugh who has decided to view this whole incident as a success. Now he'll just have to convince Avery. It seems it won't take much effort, because the Captain looks happy, too.  
"Look at that. When they told me you stole a helicopter–"  
"We didn't steal it, we just borrowed it."  
"Yes, but what you two 'borrow' usually ends up on fire and can't be returned. But you didn't wreck the helicopter."  
Murtaugh allows himself a self-satisfied grin, because his expert steering had something to do with that.  
"You totaled your car again, but I'll take that, especially since the perp is mostly alive. In fact, I feel like I should open a bottle of champagne, because it seems you _can_ solve a case without causing a massive explosion."  
Murtaugh snorts. "There was almost an explosion in my pants when I thought we were gonna crash."  
"What?" Avery looks at him quizzically.  
"I mean I almost shit my pants."  
"Oh. Well, you didn't do that either, so still, good job. And please also tell that to that partner of yours, once he's done with his session."  
Murtaugh nods. "I will. Though he's happy enough as it is since he got to fly the chopper."  
"Alright. Once you hand in your paperwork you can go home."  
It's just after three o'clock. He can take a shower and change, then finish his paperwork, and be ready just in time to pick up his wife from work and regale her with tales of his heroic feat. Murtaugh grins. Today turned out to be a good day after all.


End file.
